Visitation (semi Draco/Hermione)
Title: Visitation
Author: Tonya
Rating: PG
Pairing: Draco/Hermione, implied Harry/Hermione
All disclaimers apply.
----------
She didn’t enjoy coming here.
Even without the Dementors (who had left their duties behind during the second war to join Voldemort’s league), Azkaban still carried a distinct oppressiveness in the air. Not even the smiling human guards who greeted her every time she showed up could quell her uneasiness about this place.
She was quite sure that the smiling faces didn’t even know her name. They knew of her, yes, but to them, she was nothing but a label.
For some, she was simply the wavy-haired brunette who seemed to show up like clockwork to visit one of their inmates. For others who read each issue of the Daily Prophet, she was that girl. The girl who had fought alongside the infamous Harry Potter the previous year. The girl, that rumor had it, had plans to marry the Boy Who Lived.
None of them knew her name or why she seemed to show up monthly to see a certain prisoner. None of them knew because to them, she was simply another visitor-a friend, a loved one, an acquaintance.
But she knew that to the person she visited, she was none of the above.
To him, she was simply that Granger girl.
Hermione approached his cell, listening to the sounds of the other prisoners.
He sat on the floor of his cell, his back against the solid wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. His arms dangled lazily from where they rested on top his knees. At the sound of her footfalls, he looked up, and his trademark sneer etched across his aristocratic features.
“You again, Granger?”
Hermione folded her arms over her chest. “Perhaps you’d prefer Harry or Ron to make these visits?”
“Visits. Right.” He chuckled under his breath, leaning his head back against the wall. “Visits, Granger, are pleasant.” He smirked, his gaze traveling over her. “Conjugal visits even more so. These aren’t visits, Granger; these are interrogations. So unless you plan to bring me home-baked goods or shag me, please stop referring to these as visits.”
She frowned deeply in response.
For the past six months, she had been making these little stops by his cell, once a month.
During the war, they had all chosen sides, and Malfoy had chosen the side his father had instilled in him to choose. When Voldemort had been defeated, the remainder of his followers fled into hiding-Malfoy included. Two months later, he had been captured by the Aurors and brought to Azkaban.
And for the past six months, she had been showing up, questioning him about the whereabouts of his father and other prominent Death Eaters thought to still be alive and in hiding. Hermione had not wanted the assignment, but Harry had played to her more logical side when presenting this job to her.
Malfoy wouldn’t open up to a stranger, but at the same time, he’d be just as unlikely to open up to Harry or Ron. Two people Malfoy had considered his worst enemies since their first day at Hogwarts. Hermione knew that Malfoy hated her just as much, but his hatred of her was more about ignorance than a pissing-contest. That gave her an odd advantage over Harry and Ron.
So if any of them could eventually get information out of Malfoy, it would be Hermione.
“Where is he, Malfoy?” she asked, getting straight to the point.
He studied her with his piercing gray eyes. “You think my answer to your bloody question has changed?” he asked, his voice etched with boredom.
Hermione held his stare. “Has it?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Ask me again.”
“You heard the question the first time,” she shot back.
“Ask. Me. Again.”
Hermione bit her tongue. She knew full well what he was doing. Ordering her. Trying to show that even caged, he still had a dominance over her that she would never be able to rise above. And as much as she would have loved to spit in his face and tell him what he could do with his little order, his little game of power, she knew she had a job to do.
Swallowing down a growl, she asked sharply, “Where is your father, Malfoy?”
Malfoy pulled himself to his feet and made his way towards her. He wrapped his fingers around the bars that separated them and leaned his tall, slender frame towards her. They locked eyes, and a slow smirk spread across his face as he spoke. “If I did know, Granger, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell a filthy mudblood like you.”
He pushed himself away from the bars with a smug smile and strolled over to his bed in the corner of the cell. He flopped back onto the mattress, folding his arms under his head and staring up at the ceiling.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Perhaps you should think twice before insulting someone who can help you out of your current situation, Malfoy.”
Malfoy simply scoffed in response.
“You don’t bear the mark of a Death Eater,” she continued, ignoring his nonverbal rebuttal. “If you just tell us what we want to know, we can arrange for your release.”
At that, Malfoy sat up on his elbows, scowling at her. “I don’t need help, Granger. Especially not from your little golden boy.”
Hermione unconsciously twisted the gold band on her left hand as her irritation with Malfoy only continued to rise. “Then who exactly is going to help you, Malfoy?” she replied. “Your father? Because he’s shown how much he bloody cares what happens to you, hasn’t he?”
Malfoy was on his feet and in front of her so quickly that Hermione took an instinctive step back. He grabbed the bars fiercely, his pale knuckles becoming even more so under his tight grip. “Don’t you ever speak about my father,” he snarled.
“You’re protecting a man who has never tried to protect you.”
“You’d do best to stop right there, Granger.”
“Or what, Malfoy?” she replied, stepping up to the bars as her confidence returned. “You’ll be forced to actually listen?”
He simply glared at her, his eyes burning with a rage Hermione instantly recognized. A rage that made her glad that a wall of metal was between her body and his.
“Do you think he’d do the same for you?” She waited for his answer, and when he didn’t respond, she folded her arms. “Honestly, Malfoy, do you think your father would actually do the same for you?”
“I’m not my father,” he replied gruffly.
He pushed himself away from the bars again, and this time he returned to his seat on the hard floor. He pulled his knees up and draped his arms, returning to the position in which she had first found him.
Hermione watched him as if seeing him for the first time. She had based her entire perception of Malfoy on what she knew about him. About his father. About his family as a whole. She had always assumed that Malfoy strived to be just like his father; and even though genetically they seemed to be one in the same, there was something strikingly different about their character.
Something she had never noticed until just now through Malfoy’s unknowingly revealing remark.
Hermione was quite sure that under the same circumstances as his son, Lucius Malfoy would tell what was needed in order to save himself. Malfoy, however, would rather sit in dark confinement than sell out his father, his family name.
Hermione would applaud his loyalty, if only it had been directed at someone who actually deserved it.
“Draco….”
She cringed at how foreign that name felt in her mouth. He had never been more than Malfoy to any of them. Malfoy was everything that angered them, everything that annoyed them. Calling him by his given name made him less of a caricature and more of an actual person.
Malfoy’s gaze instantly focused on her, the confusion etched across his face. He continued to watch her suspiciously but said nothing about this sudden change in greeting.
“Draco,” she tried again, “you don’t want to be here.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what the hell I want, Granger.”
“ I know that no one in their right mind would enjoy waking up to this day after day. No one.” She shook her head, determined. “Not even someone as cold-hearted as yourself.”
“I’m sure you’d like to warm my cold heart, wouldn’t you?” he replied lewdly, a smirk on his lips.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Make all the crude little remarks you like, but it doesn’t change the truth of what I said.”
“You’re always so sure of yourself,” he replied, the smirk fading away. “You can never be wrong.”
“And neither can you,” she countered.
“I’m nothing like you, Granger,” he spat back.
“No, you’re not. I wouldn’t sit there and accept this as my fate. Especially if someone was offering to help me.” She sighed, growing tired of talking in circles. “Just tell us where your father is. Where he could be, Draco, and be done with all of this.”
A moment passed before he shook his head. “The answer is still no.”
Hermione exhaled deeply. “Will the answer ever be yes?”
“Once my father is dead,” he nodded. “Then I’ll tell you where he is.”
She studied him sadly, the thought she had kept in during their entire conversation finally slipping from her lips. “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”
Malfoy chuckled quietly. “And I suppose you think that you do.”
Hermione frowned in response, tucking a strand of unruly hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you in a month, Malfoy,” she stated, forcing herself to return to a more professional state.
“But of course,” he smirked.
She nodded curtly and started away from his cell. She only got a few feet away before she turned back.
He continued to sit in his spot, watching her.
“Even someone you perceive as a mortal enemy can care about your fate, Draco.”
With that, she turned and departed quickly, not giving him the opportunity to form a snide retort. She was quite sure he’d have a biting remark to her declaration prepared and ready when she showed up next month.
Because no matter if he was now Draco or Malfoy in her eyes, some things didn’t change.
He’d always have a scathing remark for that Granger girl.
-end
Author: Tonya
Rating: PG
Pairing: Draco/Hermione, implied Harry/Hermione
All disclaimers apply.
----------
She didn’t enjoy coming here.
Even without the Dementors (who had left their duties behind during the second war to join Voldemort’s league), Azkaban still carried a distinct oppressiveness in the air. Not even the smiling human guards who greeted her every time she showed up could quell her uneasiness about this place.
She was quite sure that the smiling faces didn’t even know her name. They knew of her, yes, but to them, she was nothing but a label.
For some, she was simply the wavy-haired brunette who seemed to show up like clockwork to visit one of their inmates. For others who read each issue of the Daily Prophet, she was that girl. The girl who had fought alongside the infamous Harry Potter the previous year. The girl, that rumor had it, had plans to marry the Boy Who Lived.
None of them knew her name or why she seemed to show up monthly to see a certain prisoner. None of them knew because to them, she was simply another visitor-a friend, a loved one, an acquaintance.
But she knew that to the person she visited, she was none of the above.
To him, she was simply that Granger girl.
Hermione approached his cell, listening to the sounds of the other prisoners.
He sat on the floor of his cell, his back against the solid wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. His arms dangled lazily from where they rested on top his knees. At the sound of her footfalls, he looked up, and his trademark sneer etched across his aristocratic features.
“You again, Granger?”
Hermione folded her arms over her chest. “Perhaps you’d prefer Harry or Ron to make these visits?”
“Visits. Right.” He chuckled under his breath, leaning his head back against the wall. “Visits, Granger, are pleasant.” He smirked, his gaze traveling over her. “Conjugal visits even more so. These aren’t visits, Granger; these are interrogations. So unless you plan to bring me home-baked goods or shag me, please stop referring to these as visits.”
She frowned deeply in response.
For the past six months, she had been making these little stops by his cell, once a month.
During the war, they had all chosen sides, and Malfoy had chosen the side his father had instilled in him to choose. When Voldemort had been defeated, the remainder of his followers fled into hiding-Malfoy included. Two months later, he had been captured by the Aurors and brought to Azkaban.
And for the past six months, she had been showing up, questioning him about the whereabouts of his father and other prominent Death Eaters thought to still be alive and in hiding. Hermione had not wanted the assignment, but Harry had played to her more logical side when presenting this job to her.
Malfoy wouldn’t open up to a stranger, but at the same time, he’d be just as unlikely to open up to Harry or Ron. Two people Malfoy had considered his worst enemies since their first day at Hogwarts. Hermione knew that Malfoy hated her just as much, but his hatred of her was more about ignorance than a pissing-contest. That gave her an odd advantage over Harry and Ron.
So if any of them could eventually get information out of Malfoy, it would be Hermione.
“Where is he, Malfoy?” she asked, getting straight to the point.
He studied her with his piercing gray eyes. “You think my answer to your bloody question has changed?” he asked, his voice etched with boredom.
Hermione held his stare. “Has it?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Ask me again.”
“You heard the question the first time,” she shot back.
“Ask. Me. Again.”
Hermione bit her tongue. She knew full well what he was doing. Ordering her. Trying to show that even caged, he still had a dominance over her that she would never be able to rise above. And as much as she would have loved to spit in his face and tell him what he could do with his little order, his little game of power, she knew she had a job to do.
Swallowing down a growl, she asked sharply, “Where is your father, Malfoy?”
Malfoy pulled himself to his feet and made his way towards her. He wrapped his fingers around the bars that separated them and leaned his tall, slender frame towards her. They locked eyes, and a slow smirk spread across his face as he spoke. “If I did know, Granger, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell a filthy mudblood like you.”
He pushed himself away from the bars with a smug smile and strolled over to his bed in the corner of the cell. He flopped back onto the mattress, folding his arms under his head and staring up at the ceiling.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Perhaps you should think twice before insulting someone who can help you out of your current situation, Malfoy.”
Malfoy simply scoffed in response.
“You don’t bear the mark of a Death Eater,” she continued, ignoring his nonverbal rebuttal. “If you just tell us what we want to know, we can arrange for your release.”
At that, Malfoy sat up on his elbows, scowling at her. “I don’t need help, Granger. Especially not from your little golden boy.”
Hermione unconsciously twisted the gold band on her left hand as her irritation with Malfoy only continued to rise. “Then who exactly is going to help you, Malfoy?” she replied. “Your father? Because he’s shown how much he bloody cares what happens to you, hasn’t he?”
Malfoy was on his feet and in front of her so quickly that Hermione took an instinctive step back. He grabbed the bars fiercely, his pale knuckles becoming even more so under his tight grip. “Don’t you ever speak about my father,” he snarled.
“You’re protecting a man who has never tried to protect you.”
“You’d do best to stop right there, Granger.”
“Or what, Malfoy?” she replied, stepping up to the bars as her confidence returned. “You’ll be forced to actually listen?”
He simply glared at her, his eyes burning with a rage Hermione instantly recognized. A rage that made her glad that a wall of metal was between her body and his.
“Do you think he’d do the same for you?” She waited for his answer, and when he didn’t respond, she folded her arms. “Honestly, Malfoy, do you think your father would actually do the same for you?”
“I’m not my father,” he replied gruffly.
He pushed himself away from the bars again, and this time he returned to his seat on the hard floor. He pulled his knees up and draped his arms, returning to the position in which she had first found him.
Hermione watched him as if seeing him for the first time. She had based her entire perception of Malfoy on what she knew about him. About his father. About his family as a whole. She had always assumed that Malfoy strived to be just like his father; and even though genetically they seemed to be one in the same, there was something strikingly different about their character.
Something she had never noticed until just now through Malfoy’s unknowingly revealing remark.
Hermione was quite sure that under the same circumstances as his son, Lucius Malfoy would tell what was needed in order to save himself. Malfoy, however, would rather sit in dark confinement than sell out his father, his family name.
Hermione would applaud his loyalty, if only it had been directed at someone who actually deserved it.
“Draco….”
She cringed at how foreign that name felt in her mouth. He had never been more than Malfoy to any of them. Malfoy was everything that angered them, everything that annoyed them. Calling him by his given name made him less of a caricature and more of an actual person.
Malfoy’s gaze instantly focused on her, the confusion etched across his face. He continued to watch her suspiciously but said nothing about this sudden change in greeting.
“Draco,” she tried again, “you don’t want to be here.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what the hell I want, Granger.”
“ I know that no one in their right mind would enjoy waking up to this day after day. No one.” She shook her head, determined. “Not even someone as cold-hearted as yourself.”
“I’m sure you’d like to warm my cold heart, wouldn’t you?” he replied lewdly, a smirk on his lips.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Make all the crude little remarks you like, but it doesn’t change the truth of what I said.”
“You’re always so sure of yourself,” he replied, the smirk fading away. “You can never be wrong.”
“And neither can you,” she countered.
“I’m nothing like you, Granger,” he spat back.
“No, you’re not. I wouldn’t sit there and accept this as my fate. Especially if someone was offering to help me.” She sighed, growing tired of talking in circles. “Just tell us where your father is. Where he could be, Draco, and be done with all of this.”
A moment passed before he shook his head. “The answer is still no.”
Hermione exhaled deeply. “Will the answer ever be yes?”
“Once my father is dead,” he nodded. “Then I’ll tell you where he is.”
She studied him sadly, the thought she had kept in during their entire conversation finally slipping from her lips. “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”
Malfoy chuckled quietly. “And I suppose you think that you do.”
Hermione frowned in response, tucking a strand of unruly hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you in a month, Malfoy,” she stated, forcing herself to return to a more professional state.
“But of course,” he smirked.
She nodded curtly and started away from his cell. She only got a few feet away before she turned back.
He continued to sit in his spot, watching her.
“Even someone you perceive as a mortal enemy can care about your fate, Draco.”
With that, she turned and departed quickly, not giving him the opportunity to form a snide retort. She was quite sure he’d have a biting remark to her declaration prepared and ready when she showed up next month.
Because no matter if he was now Draco or Malfoy in her eyes, some things didn’t change.
He’d always have a scathing remark for that Granger girl.
-end